Complete weird tales of.., p.683
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 683
“Will you kindly announce me to Miss Nevers?” he said, looking around for a chair.
“I am Miss Nevers.”
She closed the ledger in which she had been writing, laid aside her pen and rose. As she came forward he found himself looking at a tall girl, slim to thinness, except for the rounded oval of her face under a loose crown of yellow hair, from which a stray lock sagged untidily, curling across her cheek.
He thought: “A blue-stocking prodigy of learning, with her hair in a mess, and painted at that.” But he said politely, yet with that hint of idle amusement in his voice which often sounded through his speech with women:
“Are you the Miss Nevers who has taken over this antique business, and who writes monographs on Hurtado de Mendoza?”
“Yes.”
“You appear to be very young to succeed such a distinguished authority as your father, Miss Nevers.”
His observation did not seem to disturb her, nor did the faintest hint of mockery in his pleasant voice. She waited quietly for him to state his business.
He said: “I came here to ask somebody’s advice about engaging an expert to appraise and catalogue my collection.”
And even while he was speaking he was conscious that never before had he seen such a white skin and such red lips — if they were natural. And he began to think that they might be.
He said, noticing the bright lock astray on her cheek once more:
“I suppose that I may speak to you in confidence — just as I would have spoken to your father.”
She was still looking at him with the charm of youthful inquiry in her eyes.
“Certainly,” she said.
She glanced down at his card which still lay on her blotter, stood a moment with her hand resting on the desk, then indicated a chair at her elbow and seated herself.
He took the chair.
“I wrote you that I’d drop in sometime this week. The note was directed to your father. I did not know he was not living.”
“You are the Mr. Desboro who owns the collection of armour?” she asked.
“I am that James Philip Desboro who lives at Silverwood,” he said. “Evidently you have heard of the Desboro collection of arms and armour.”
“Everybody has, I think.”
He said, carelessly: “Museums, amateur collectors, and students know it, and I suppose most dealers in antiques have heard of it.”
“Yes, all of them, I believe.”
“My house,” he went on, “Silverwood, is in darkest Westchester, and my recent grandfather, who made the collection, built a wing to contain it. It’s there as he left it. My father made no additions to it. Nor,” he added, “have I. Now I want to ask you whether a lot of those things have not increased in value since my grandfather’s day?”
“No doubt.”
“And the collection is valuable?”
“I think it must be — very.”
“And to determine its value I ought to have an expert go there and catalogue it and appraise it?”
“Certainly.”
“Who? That’s what I’ve come here to find out.”
“Perhaps you might wish us to do it.”
“Is that still part of your business?”
“It is.”
“Well,” he said, after a moment’s thought, “I am going to sell the Desboro collection.”
“Oh, I’m sorry!” she exclaimed, under her breath; and looked up to find him surprised and beginning to be amused again.
“Your attitude is not very professional — for a dealer in antiques,” he said quizzically.
“I am something else, too, Mr. Desboro.” She had flushed a little, not responding to his lighter tone.
“I am very sure you are,” he said. “Those who really know about and care for such collections must feel sorry to see them dispersed.”
“I had hoped that the Museum might have the Desboro collection some day,” she said, in a low voice.
He said: “I am sorry it is not to be so,” and had the grace to redden a trifle.
She played with her pen, waiting for him to continue; and she was so young, and fresh, and pretty that he was in no hurry to finish. Besides, there was something about her face that had been interesting him — an expression which made him think sometimes that she was smiling, or on the verge of it. But the slightly upcurled corners of her mouth had been fashioned so by her Maker, or perhaps had become so from some inborn gaiety of heart, leaving a faint, sweet imprint on her lips.
To watch her was becoming a pleasure. He wondered what her smile might be like — all the while pretending an absent-minded air which cloaked his idle curiosity.
She waited, undisturbed, for him to come to some conclusion. And all the while he was thinking that her lips were perhaps just a trifle too full — that there was more of Aphrodite in her face than of any saint he remembered; but her figure was thin enough for any saint. Perhaps a course of banquets — perhaps a régime under a diet list warranted to improve ——
“Did you ever see the Desboro collection, Miss Nevers?” he asked vaguely.
“No.”
“What expert will you send to catalogue and appraise it?”
“I could go.”
“You!” he said, surprised and smiling.
“That is my profession.”
“I knew, of course, that it was your father’s. But I never supposed that you — —”
“Did you wish to have an appraisement made, Mr. Desboro?” she interrupted dryly.
“Why, yes, I suppose so. Otherwise, I wouldn’t know what to ask for anything.”
“Have you really decided to sell that superb collection?” she demanded.
“What else can I do?” he inquired gayly. “I suppose the Museum ought to have it, but I can’t afford to give it away or to keep it. In other words — and brutal ones — I need money.”
She said gravely: “I am sorry.”
And he knew she didn’t mean that she was sorry because he needed money, but because the Museum was not to have the arms, armour, jades, and ivories. Yet, somehow, her “I am sorry” sounded rather sweet to him.
For a while he sat silent, one knee crossed over the other, twisting the silver crook of his stick. From moment to moment she raised her eyes from the blotter to let them rest inquiringly on him, then went on tracing arabesques over her blotter with an inkless pen. One slender hand was bracketed on her hip, and he noticed the fingers, smooth and rounded as a child’s. Nor could he keep his eyes from her profile, with its delicate, short nose, ever so slightly arched, and its lips, just a trifle too sensuous — and that soft lock astray again against her cheek. No, her hair was not dyed, either. And it was as though she divined his thought, for she looked up suddenly from her blotter and he instantly gazed elsewhere, feeling guilty and impertinent — sentiments not often experienced by that young man.
“I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Miss Nevers,” he concluded, “I’ll write you a letter to my housekeeper, Mrs. Quant. Shall I? And you’ll go up and look over the collection and let me know what you think of it!”
“Do you not expect to be there?”
“Ought I to be?”
“I really can’t answer you, but it seems to me rather important that the owner of a collection should be present when the appraiser begins work.”
“The fact is,” he said, “I’m booked for a silly shooting trip. I’m supposed to start to-morrow.”
“Then perhaps you had better write the letter. My full name is Jacqueline Nevers — if you require it. You may use my desk.”
She rose; he thanked her, seated himself, and began a letter to Mrs. Quant, charging her to admit, entertain, and otherwise particularly cherish one Miss Jacqueline Nevers, and give her the keys to the armoury.
While he was busy, Jacqueline Nevers paced the room backward and forward, her pretty head thoughtfully bent, hands clasped behind her, moving leisurely, absorbed in her cogitations.
Desboro ended his letter and sat for a moment watching her until, happening to glance at him, she discovered his idleness.
“Have you finished?” she asked.
A trifle out of countenance he rose and explained that he had, and laid the letter on her blotter. Realising that she was expecting him to take his leave, he also realised that he didn’t want to. And he began to spar with Destiny for time.
“I suppose this matter will require several visits from you,” he inquired.
“Yes, several.”
“It takes some time to catalogue and appraise such a collection, doesn’t it?”
“Yes.”
She answered him very sweetly but impersonally, and there seemed to be in her brief replies no encouragement for him to linger. So he started to pick up his hat, thinking as fast as he could all the while; and his facile wits saved him at the last moment.
“Well, upon my word!” he exclaimed. “Do you know that you and I have not yet discussed terms?”
“We make our usual charges,” she said.
“And what are those?”
She explained briefly.
“That is for cataloguing and appraising only?”
“Yes.”
“And if you sell the collection?”
“We take our usual commission.”
“And you think you can sell it for me?”
“I’ll have to — won’t I?”
He laughed. “But can you?”
“Yes.”
As the curt affirmative fell from her lips, suddenly, under all her delicate, youthful charm, Desboro divined the note of hidden strength, the self-confidence of capability — oddly at variance with her allure of lovely immaturity. Yet he might have surmised it, for though her figure was that of a girl, her face, for all its soft, fresh beauty, was a woman’s, and already firmly moulded in noble lines which even the scarlet fulness of the lips could not deny. For if she had the mouth of Aphrodite, she had her brow, also.
He had not been able to make her smile, although the upcurled corners of her mouth seemed always to promise something. He wondered what her expression might be like when animated — even annoyed. And his idle curiosity led him on to the edges of impertinence.
“May I say something that I have in mind and not offend you?” he asked.
“Yes — if you wish.” She lifted her eyes.
“Do you think you are old enough and experienced enough to catalogue and appraise such an important collection as this one? I thought perhaps you might prefer not to take such a responsibility upon yourself, but would rather choose to employ some veteran expert.”
She was silent.
“Have I offended you?”
She walked slowly to the end of the room, turned, and, passing him a third time, looked up at him and laughed — a most enchanting little laugh — a revelation as delightful as it was unexpected.
“I believe you really want to do it yourself!” he exclaimed.
“Want to? I’m dying to! I don’t think there is anything in the world I had rather try!” she said, with a sudden flush and sparkle of recklessness that transfigured her. “Do you suppose anybody in my business would willingly miss the chance of personally handling such a transaction? Of course I want to. Not only because it would be a most creditable transaction for this house — not only because it would be a profitable business undertaking, but” — and the swift, engaging smile parted her lips once more— “in a way I feel as though my own ability had been questioned — —”
“By me?” he protested. “Did I actually dare question your ability?”
“Something very like it. So, naturally, I would seize an opportunity to vindicate myself — if you offer it — —”
“I do offer it,” he said.
“I accept.”
There was a moment’s indecisive silence. He picked up his hat and stick, lingering still; then:
“Good-bye, Miss Nevers. When are you going up to Silverwood?”
“To-morrow, if it is quite convenient.”
“Entirely. I may be there. Perhaps I can fix it — put off that shooting party for a day or two.”
“I hope so.”
“I hope so, too.”
He walked reluctantly toward the door, turned and came all the way back.
“Perhaps you had rather I remained away from Silverwood.”
“Why?”
“But, of course,” he said, “there is a nice old housekeeper there, and a lot of servants — —”
She laughed. “Thank you very much, Mr. Desboro. It is very nice of you, but I had not considered that at all. Business women must disregard such conventions, if they’re to compete with men. I’d like you to be there, because I may have questions to ask.”
“Certainly — it’s very good of you. I — I’ll try to be there — —”
“Because I might have some very important questions to ask you,” she repeated.
“Of course. I’ve got to be there. Haven’t I?”
“It might be better for your interests.”
“Then I’ll be there. Well, good-bye, Miss Nevers.”
“Good-bye, Mr. Desboro.”
“And thank you for undertaking it,” he said cordially.
“Thank you for asking me.”
“Oh, I’m — I’m really delighted. It’s most kind of you. Good-bye, Miss Nevers.”
“Good-bye, Mr. Desboro.”
He had to go that time; and he went still retaining a confused vision of blue eyes and vivid lips, and of a single lock of hair astray once more across a smooth, white cheek.
When he had gone, Jacqueline seated herself at her desk and picked up her pen. She remained so for a while, then emerged abruptly from a fit of abstraction and sorted some papers unnecessarily. When she had arranged them to her fancy, she rearranged them. Then the little Louis XVI desk interested her, and she examined the inset placques of flowered Sèvres in detail, as though the little desk of tulip, satinwood and walnut had not stood there since she was a child.
Later she noticed his card on her blotter; and, face framed in her hands, she studied it so long that the card became a glimmering white patch and vanished; and before her remote gaze his phantom grew out of space, seated there in the empty chair beside her — the loosened collar of his raincoat revealing to her the most attractive face of any man she had ever looked upon in her twenty-two years of life.
Toward evening the electric lamps were lighted in the shop; rain fell more heavily outside; few people entered. She was busy with ledgers and files of old catalogues recording auction sales, the name of the purchaser and the prices pencilled on the margins in her father’s curious handwriting. Also her card index aided her. Under the head of “Desboro” she was able to note what objects of interest or of art her father had bought for her recent visitor’s grandfather, and the prices paid — little, indeed, in those days, compared with what the same objects would now bring. And, continuing her search, she finally came upon an uncompleted catalogue of the Desboro collection. It was in manuscript — her father’s peculiar French chirography — neat and accurate as far as it went.
Everything bearing upon the Desboro collection she bundled together and strapped with rubber bands; then, one by one, the clerks and salesmen came to report to her before closing up. She locked the safe, shut her desk, and went out to the shop, where she remained until the shutters were clamped and the last salesman had bade her a cheery good night. Then, bolting the door and double-locking it, she went back along the passage and up the stairs, where she had the two upper floors to herself, and a cook and chambermaid to keep house for her.
In the gaslight of the upper apartment she seemed even more slender than by daylight — her eyes bluer, her lips more scarlet. She glanced into the mirror of her dresser as she passed, pausing to twist up the unruly lock that had defied her since childhood.
Everywhere in the room Christmas was still in evidence — a tiny tree, with frivolous, glittering things still twisted and suspended among the branches, calendars, sachets, handkerchiefs still gaily tied in ribbons, flowering shrubs swathed in tissue and bows of tulle — these from her salesmen, and she had carefully but pleasantly maintained the line of demarcation by presenting each with a gold piece.
But there were other gifts — gloves and stockings, and bon-bons, and books, from the friends who were girls when she too was a child at school; and a set of volumes from Cary Clydesdale whose collection of jades she was cataloguing. The volumes were very beautiful and expensive. The gift had surprised her.
Among her childhood friends was her social niche; the circumference of their circle the limits of her social environment. They came to her and she went to them; their pastimes and pleasures were hers; and if there was not, perhaps, among them her intellectual equal, she had not yet felt the need of such companionship, but had been satisfied to have them hold her as a good companion who otherwise possessed much strange and perhaps useless knowledge quite beyond their compass. And she was shyly content with her intellectual isolation.
So, amid these people, she had found a place prepared for her when she emerged from childhood. What lay outside of this circle she surmised with the intermittent curiosity of ignorance, or of a bystander who watches a pageant for a moment and hastens on, preoccupied with matters more familiar.
All young girls think of pleasures; she had thought of them always when the day’s task was ended, and she had sought them with all the ardour of youth, with a desire unwearied, and a thirst unquenched.
In her, mental and physical pleasure were wholesomely balanced; the keen delight of intellectual experience, the happiness of research and attainment, went hand in hand with a rather fastidious appetite for having the best time that circumstances permitted.
She danced when she had a chance, went to theatres and restaurants with her friends, bathed at Manhattan in summer, when gay parties were organised, and did the thousand innocent things that thousands of young business girls do whose lines are cast in the metropolis.
